History / mystery

 

Though I believe presence has a certain kind of magic, I couldn’t
rush to Vatican City at the death of Pope Francis—nor take
the time when he was alive.  I observe the crowds on my TV
screen and feel a missed opportunity to grow magical
by association.  Isn’t that what mourners hope for?  The crowds
spill out of St. Peter's Square, and water the stones with tears. 
And fears about what level conservatism the Conclave will consider
now that the liberal Pope is dead and fascism thrives elsewhere.
Francis was a pauper with no greedy aspirations.  In that,
despite towers of structured authority, he was like Jesus.
He was the Sermon on the Mount addressed to those who consider
themselves better than others, holier than others, judges of others.
He was the Sermon on the Mount as poor and disenfranchised
people might wish for it to be understood, as first to do no harm.
And to love the neighbor and the stranger and God as one’s self.
 

We planted this tree.

So even in absence, we

are its mystery.

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2025 Susan L. Chast